Cupid Armed.

    Place the helm on thy brow,
        In thy hand take the spear;--
    Thou art armed, Cupid, now,
        And thy battle-hour is near.
March on! march on! thy shaft and bow
    Were weak against such charms;
March on! march on! so proud a foe
    Scorns all but martial arms.

    See the darts in her eyes,
        Tipt with scorn, how they shine!
    Every shaft, as it flies,
        Mocking proudly at thine.
March on! march on! thy feathered darts
    Soft bosoms soon might move;
But ruder arms to ruder hearts
    Must teach what 'tis to love.
    Place the helm on thy brow;
        In thy hand take the spear,--
    Thou art armed, Cupid, now,
        And thy battle-hour is near.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXVII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song. Fanny, Dearest.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Dawn Is Breaking O'er Us.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Echo.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXVIII.

As, by his Lemnian forge's flame,
The husband of the Paphian dame
Moulded the glowing steel, to form
Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;
And Venus, as he plied his art,
Shed honey round each new-made dart,
While Love, at hand, to finish all,
Tipped every arrow's point with gall;
It chanced the Lord of Battles came
To visit that deep cave of flame.
'Twas from the ranks of war he rushed,
His spear with many a life-drop blushed;
He saw the fiery darts, and smiled
Contemptuous at the archer-child.
"What!" said the urchin, "dost thou smile?
Here, hold this little dart awhile,
And thou wilt find, though swift of flight,
My bolts are not so feathery light."

    Mars took the shaft--and, oh, thy look,
Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!--
Sigh...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XIII.

I will, I will, the conflict's past,
And I'll consent to love at last.
Cupid has long, with smiling art,
Invited me to yield my heart;
And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resigned;
And so repelled the tender lure,
And hoped my heart would sleep secure.

But, slighted in his boasted charms,
The angry infant flew to arms;
He slung his quiver's golden frame,
He took his bow; his shafts of flame,
And proudly summoned me to yield,
Or meet him on the martial field.
And what did I unthinking do?
I took to arms, undaunted, too;
Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, All ye powers above!)
I fought with Love! I fought with Love!
And now his arrows all were shed,...

Thomas Moore

When Love, Who Ruled.

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er
Has rosy mother's isles of light,
Was cruising off the Paphian shore,
    A sail at sunset hove in sight.
"A chase, a chase! my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Aloft the winged sailors sprung,
    And, swarming up the mast like bees,
The snow-white sails expanding flung,
    Like broad magnolias to the breeze.
"Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

The chase was o'er--the bark was caught,
    The winged crew her freight explored;
And found 'twas just as Love had thought,
    For all was contraband aboard.
"A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Safe stowed in many a package there,
    And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass,"
Were ...

Thomas Moore

The World Was Husht.

The world was husht, the moon above
    Sailed thro' ether slowly,
When near the casement of my love,
    Thus I whispered lowly,--
"Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
    "The field I seek to-morrow
"Is one where man hath fame to reap,
    "And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may.
    Thus spoke a voice replying,
"Think not thy love, while thou'rt away,
    "Will sit here idly sighing.
"No--woman's soul, if not for fame,
    "For love can brave all danger!
Then forth from out the casement came
    A plumed and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid,
    Herself before me beaming,
With casque arrayed and falchion blade
    Beneath her girdle gleaming!
Close side by side, in freedom's fight,...

Thomas Moore

Cupid In Ambush

It oft to many has successful been
Upon his arm to let his mistress lean,
Or with her airy fan to cool her heat,
Or gently squeeze her knees, or press her feet.
All public sports to favour young desire,
With opportunities like this conspire.
E'en where his skill the gladiator shows,
With human blood where the Arena flows,
There oftentimes Love's quiver-bearing boy
Prepares his bow and arrows to destroy;
While the spectator gazes on the sight,
And sees them wound each other with delight;
While he his pretty mistress entertains,
And wagers with her who the conquest gains,
Slily the god takes aim, and hits his heart,
And in the wounds he sees he bears his part.

Matthew Prior

Lines On The Departure Of Lord Castlereagh And Stewart For The Continent.

^[1]


        at Paris^[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis.
        vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas.
        OVID. Metam. lib. xiii. v. 202.


Go, Brothers in wisdom--go, bright pair of Peers,
    And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!
The one, the best lover we have--of his years,
    And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile
    Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee;
Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile,
    And all tailors but him who so well dandifies thee.

Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff,
    Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee,
But show the young...

Thomas Moore